Dr Cullen, I presume?
by persephonesfolly
Summary: When a patient goes missing, what's a vampiric doctor to do? Consult the celebrated detective, Sherlock Holmes, of course.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters created by either Stephanie Meyer or Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Carlisle's long 'life' as a vampire opens up lots of possibilities for backstories. We know only that he spent centuries in Europe and several decades with the Volturi after becoming a vampire in England, and that he wound up in Chicago in the early 1900s. Who's to say if he didn't practice medicine for a while in his home country before moving on to America? And who's to say that he didn't meet a certain famous detective there as well? In this AU version of Carlisle's past, he finds himself consulting Sherlock Holmes by way of Dr. Watson.

CHAPTER ONE: London, 1890

"Dr. Watson, may I introduce you to Dr. Cullen?"

Dr. Aubrey had summoned me from my practice in Paddington to consult with him on a rather thorny case of his at Saint Thomas's Hospital in Southwark. The patient, a retired lieutenant colonel, complained of stomach pains. He insisted that the cause was a jezail bullet in his abdomen, which he obtained when he was wounded during a skirmish in the Khyber Pass. Since the onset of his current pain was sudden and excruciating, Dr. Aubrey surmised that the cause could not in fact be the old bullet, but the lieutenant colonel obstinately refused surgery because he'd been told that the bullet was lodged dangerously near his spine.

In desperation, Dr. Aubrey consulted me, knowing that I too had served in her majesty's forces in Afghanistan, and guessing rightly that his patient was more likely to be convinced by a fellow veteran of the Afghan campaign than by a civilian doctor. Together we prevailed upon the man to have the surgery necessary to remove the appendix which Dr. Aubrey was certain was the cause of his discomfort. No surgical rooms were available this late in the day since they were already scheduled for other procedures, so the surgery would commence first thing the next morning, and I agreed to drop by later after my consulting hours to check on the patient.

We'd just exited the lieutenant colonel's room and were embarking on our journey down the hall when Aubrey spoke to me. A gaggle of young doctors stood talking in front of a room, consulting their notes. Aubrey lowered his voice as he walked towards them, dodging a nursing sister with a cart as he spoke.

"I'm indebted to you, Dr. Watson, for not even the persuasive Dr. Cullen could move my patient into consenting to the surgery which I am sure will save his life, and Dr. Cullen can usually charm the birds from the trees."

I could see no signs of prepossessing charm in any of the doctors huddled together. To the contrary, all appeared tired and glum, the natural condition for doctors during their long hours of training as I well remembered from my days at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Just beyond them, however, stood a man bidding farewell to a woman in a green wool walking gown. She was holding the hand of a small golden haired child at her side. The similar hue of the mother's coiffure, peeking out from under her hat, pronounced them mother and daughter. The woman smiled as she shook the doctor's hand, the expression briefly lightening features drawn with pain, before she led the child away towards the stairs.

As she left, the man turned to watch her go. Gaslight from a fixture on the wall illuminated a visage both handsome and pensive as he gazed after his retreating patient. His hair was robustly flaxen in a manner that argued Viking or Anglo-Saxon ancestors in his distant past. A noble nose, classically appointed features and the pallor common to many during our long English winters reminded me of a statue of a young Adonis from a museum, unaccountably transported in modern dress to the halls of Saint Thomas's hospital. Here was an impressive example of English manhood, and it was no wonder his patient had smiled at him despite her pain.

"Dr. Cullen, I presume?" I muttered back to Dr. Aubrey, indicating the gentleman as we drew near.

Aubrey either didn't hear me or pretended not to as he called out a hearty greeting.

"Cullen, my good man. I've brought Dr. Watson to meet you."

The man stepped forward smiling, for very few can resist Aubrey's particular brand of cheerfulness. In his eyes there was an expression of kindness and ready compassion that one very much likes to see in young doctors. Too often the unavoidable failures experienced in our profession can instill a certain clinical jadedness. There was none of that in Cullen.

Aubrey stopped at Dr. Cullen's side and continued. "Dr. Carlisle Cullen is one of the best surgeons Saint Thomas's Hospital can boast."

"How do you do, Dr. Cullen?"

We shook hands briefly. He had a firm grip, and looked me straight in the eye as he did so. His hands were cold. These old hospitals were notorious for their lack of good central heating.

"Very well indeed, Dr. Watson. May I ask if you are _the_ Dr. Watson who wrote the stories of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Why yes," I replied, surprised and pleased, for I'd only just published the two of them, 'A Study in Scarlet' first and 'The Sign of the Four' last year.

An even warmer smile graced Dr. Cullen's face. "Then I am more than pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson, for I am an avid reader and your account of Mr. Holmes' methods of detection quite captivated me. I hope you plan to write more?"

Aubrey smiled apologetically and moved to join the younger doctors down the hall as their conversation grew heated. It wouldn't do to have doctors seen arguing. I was rather glad he'd gone for I was new to publishing, though not to writing, and the intersection of my medical and creative pursuits was not something I was entirely comfortable with. Most doctors, if they publish at all, stick to medical treatises, but my adventures with Sherlock Holmes were just too invigorating to keep to myself. Not that Holmes understood. It was the thrill of the chase that moved him, not the recording thereof.

"Yes, well, perhaps," I allowed. "There are plenty more tales where those came from," I hinted. Whether Holmes would allow me to publish them, I neglected to add, was another matter.

"You encourage my hopes," said Cullen. "I find Mr. Holmes' abilities fascinating, and your writing style most engaging."

I felt myself growing pink with embarrassment so I hurried to change the subject.

"And what of you, Dr. Cullen? Dr. Aubrey tells me you are a very good surgeon. Will you undertake Lieutenant Colonel Waverly's surgery tomorrow morning?"

An expression of regret crossed Dr. Cullen's perfect features.

"I'm afraid I cannot. I work the night shift. I only came in a little earlier than usual to see some patients."

"Don't let him fool you," Dr. Aubrey said, returning to our side. "Since the winter months commenced Dr. Cullen has been coming in earlier and earlier. He's practically taken over our emergency patients in the late afternoon. My only regret is that I leave work just as he is coming in, so we aren't able to consult together as often as I'd like."

With a few more complimentary remarks on all sides, the conversation ended and I thought no more of the encounter until the next day when I returned to Saint Thomas's Hospital to check on the lieutenant colonel. It was later than I'd planned, and the winter's sun was ready to sink beneath the horizon out the window when I left Waverly's room. Aubrey had very likely saved his life by insisting on surgery. The appendix was near to bursting when the surgeon removed it that morning, but so long as infection did not set in, Waverly stood a fair chance of survival.

"Dr. Watson."

It was with a slight thrill of fear that I heard my name emanating from the shadows as I descended the steps of Saint Thomas's, until I saw that it was Dr. Cullen detaching himself from the side of the building. He moved with a sort of soundless grace that reminded me uncomfortably of a mountain lion stalking its prey. I shook off my fanciful impression and came forward to shake his hand.

"Dr. Cullen!"

"I must speak with you," he intoned in a low voice, glancing up at the main entrance to the hospital.

"Of course, of course, shall we go inside?"

"No, if you don't mind," he answered, and with surprising firmness he took my elbow and drew me away from the hospital, turning the corner just as Aubrey's voice, coupled with some of his fellow doctors, came boisterously from behind us. Aubrey was a good fellow, but difficult to resist and many was the time 'just one drink' turned into five or six before I could detach myself from his brand of conviviality.

Cullen led me to a small pub frequented by the working class, dockworkers and fishermen mostly. It was clean and relatively quiet. Cullen brought us two pints and watched as I tasted mine and pronounced it drinkable. I noticed that he barely touched his, but chalked it up to his emotional state as he told his tale.

"Dr. Watson, I have a problem and I don't know who to turn to. With the…peculiarities of my schedule I can't seem to solve it myself and I am at a loss."

The poor fellow was obviously unused to feeling stymied. We doctors often fall prey to the idea that our word is law in the medical field, and I've noticed that surgeons especially tend to acquire a certain arrogance that comes from holding life and death in their skilled hands. However, Cullen did not strike me as having that sort of arrogance.

"Just have it out, my dear chap, and I promise I'll do what I can."

He seemed to pull himself together at my words and began his story.

"Do you remember the woman and child I was speaking to before you met me? The woman gave her name as Mrs. Peterson, and her daughter is Emily. She came into the hospital complaining of headaches, awful debilitating headaches. I examined her and in the course of my examination it came out that she was the widow of a first mate on a ship that went down less than a year ago. She and her daughter are alone in the world as both she and her husband were orphaned in their teens, and were both only children. Her financial situation is precarious. She has a small annuity from a grandparent, and works as a singing teacher to supplement her meager income now that her husband is no longer present to provide for her. I tell you this to explain why I believe it is the stress of her situation rather than physical causes which brought upon her headaches. She also felt for some time that a malevolent presence has been watching her, but I thought it part and parcel of her pain and discounted it."

I hmmed in agreement. The fairer sex often has fancies that we mere men can not comprehend. My own wife, Mary, has a disproportional aversion to insects.

Dr. Cullen drew his hand through his hair and stared moodily at his pint of ale.

"I wish now that I'd taken her a bit more seriously for she's disappeared."

"What? Good God!"

The man gave a small bitter smile. "This very morning at the end of my shift I walked out of the hospital and saw Emily sitting on the steps. She'd tried all night long to drum up the courage to go in and find me but wasn't able to so she waited for me to come out. It's a mercy it didn't snow last night, for she would have surely frozen out there."

"Dreadful!" I murmured. The thought of a little girl freezing to death on the very steps of a hospital was all too horrifically possible in a busy institution such as Saint Thomas's where a child could easily be overlooked by those coming and going.

"Quite," Cullen agreed. "She said that a 'wrong' man had taken her mother away, and since Emily didn't know how to get home without her mother, she'd retraced her steps to the hospital and waited for me. Her mother told her never to cross London Bridge without her, so she couldn't try to get home without going against her mother's wishes even had she remembered the way. I knew Mrs. Peterson and Emily were alone in the world so without much other choice I took the child to my rooms and prevailed upon my part-time housekeeper to move in temporarily to keep an eye on her as I tried to find out what happened to her mother. I've spent the day speaking to Mrs. Peterson's landlord, a most disagreeable person, but all he told me was that Mrs. Peterson was a respectable woman who would never leave her child alone, but that for the first time in years she did not return home last night. He seemed more concerned with the loss of her rent money than her safety and well-being. I did some digging and found the address of a cousin of Mrs. Peterson's in America and I've written to her explaining the situation, but it will be some time before I hear back."

Considering the state of the mails overseas, it was likely that Cullen would indeed be forced to care for the child for more than a few days. He seemed young for a surgeon, and young bachelors and small children do not usually mesh well.

"I need to engage the services of Mr. Holmes to find out what happened to Mrs. Peterson," said Cullen. "And I need it done discreetly. You know what gossips hospital staffs are, and if it gets out that I am caring for a motherless child…"

"Quite, quite," I said hurriedly. Cullen was right. People would immediately jump to the conclusion that Emily was perhaps Cullen's own illegitimate child. It was to his credit that he was willing to take in the girl rather than send her to the uncaring bosom of the police, but then again…

"Why not consult the police?" I asked. "Not that Holmes couldn't solve your case, but the police are used to searching for missing persons."

Cullen's hands tightened on his pint. I thought for a moment that I heard the glass begin to crack, but his fingers loosened immediately as he answered.

"I don't with to cause Mrs. Peterson any embarrassment or anxiety if it turns out that there is a perfectly innocent and logical explanation for her disappearance. Her migraines could get worse in such a case, and besides, I don't think she's been gone long enough for the police to treat the situation as seriously as it deserves."

"I see your point," I conceded. "But surely, reuniting a mother and her child…"

"That's why I wish to hire Mr. Holmes, anonymously, to look into the case. He is certainly more skilled than the police at finding answers to near-impossible cases, isn't he?"

What could I do but assent? I more than anyone knew the talents of Sherlock Holmes. When all seemed lost, when the best minds Scotland Yard had to offer were at a complete loss, Holmes always came through.

"I'll do it," I told him. "I'll take your case to Sherlock Holmes."

TO BE CONTINUED

NOTE: This story is set in 1890, and with anachronistic poetic license I'm pretending that Saint Thomas's hospital was not yet torn down in Southwark to make way for the Charing Cross Railway viaduct – that happened in 1862, which I didn't realize when I started the story and needed a hospital where Watson and Cullen could meet.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The sight of the fire burning cheerfully in the grate at 221 B Baker street was most welcome after the bitter November cold. I found Holmes in his dressing gown, perusing a newspaper. The air was redolent with tobacco smoke from his pipe. Though I'd be loath to call upon anyone else at such a late hour, I knew Holmes would be awake.

"My dear Watson," said he, setting his paper aside and rising from his chair as I entered. "How good it is to see you. Now what conundrum have you brought me? I trust it is an interesting problem. Crime in London has been uninspiringly pedestrian recently."

"Well you see Holmes, It's not my conundrum. I'm here on behalf of an acquaintance. It's a missing persons case."

"Sit down," Holmes commanded, and following his own orders, he sank into his armchair, eyes glinting with interest.

I sat down on my own leather chair, still comfortably familiar to my backside, despite my two years' absence as a lodger. I now had my own practice and home in Paddington where my longsuffering wife Mary awaited. Thankfully, she was used to the odd hours required of a medical practitioner, and I knew she would not reproach for returning home late.

"This acquaintance of mine requires absolute discretion, for there is a lady involved."

Sherlock Holmes absorbed this information without so much as a blink of surprise as I went on.

"She's a mother, and has a little girl named Emily."

"How old?"

"Dashed if I know," I replied blankly, trying in vain to envision the child. I hadn't paid much attention to her to be honest. I raised my hand in the air an indeterminate level above the ground.

"She's about so high, perhaps seven or eight?"

"I believe at that height the child is more likely to be four or five," Holmes corrected, with some amusement. "It's regrettable, but I can work around that. Continue," he urged impatiently.

"Quite," I agreed doubtfully. Why the girl's age should be regrettable was unfathomable, but the story was the main thing and so I set aside Holmes' incomprehensible reaction and soldiered on.

"The woman disappeared on her way home from a doctor's visit, leaving her child to wander the streets. The child was found and is now in the care of my acquaintance who wishes to reunite mother and child."

Holmes leaned back further in his chair and steepled his fingers.

"This acquaintance of yours who 'wishes to remain anonymous' is a doctor then."

I felt my face slackening with surprise. He'd done it again! I reviewed my words, but could find nothing in them that could have revealed my colleague's profession. True, I'd mentioned Mrs. Peterson's visit to the doctor, but I'd said only that Emily had been found wandering the streets, not that she'd wandered back to her mother's doctor.

"How on earth did you...?" I sputtered.

Holmes gave a quick smile. In anyone else it might be termed a nervous tick.

"Elementary my dear Watson. Not only is your acquaintance a doctor, but I further deduce that he is a doctor working from a hospital, Saint Thomas's hospital I believe."

"Now really!" I objected.

A quick bark of laughter greeted my indignation.

"It's quite simple, Watson. I knew you'd been in a hospital because of the faint reek of carbolic acid emanating from your clothing, and since your medical practice is not the sort requiring an operating theater, the smell must have come from an edifice that contained one. It is a business day, yet you do not carry your medical bag, which further indicates that you've been on a consultation rather than a visit to the home of one of your own patients where you'd need your own personal tools of the medical trade ready to hand. Judging by the lateness of the hour and the urgency with which you entered our rooms, you must have come to me straight away after hearing the sad tale of the missing mother."

I could not help the brief warmth of nostalgia that rushed through me at the word "our". It seemed that Holmes still considered me an honorary lodger at 221 B Baker Street though I no longer lived there.

"Since I know your medical practice takes up your daylight hours, I expect you scheduled a hospital consultation at the end of a full day of work. There's a slight sheen of fish scales and a smudge of tar on the sleeve of your overcoat, the sort you'd get rubbing shoulders with wharf men, and the hospital nearest the Thames and far enough away that it took you some time to travel from there to here after work would have to be Saint Thomas's. The last time you visited me you'd been complaining of that fellow Aubrey asking you to consult and of your wife's lament that she rarely is able to dine with you in the evenings when you travel to Saint Thomas's due to its distance from your home. Therefore, it was a doctor at Saint Thomas's who wishes to engage our services."

"Elementary indeed," I agreed sourly. When he put it that way, his reasoning was transparent and obvious.

"But you do not know the name of the doctor," I finished triumphantly.

"No," Holmes agreed calmly, "though I will know his name soon enough."

"How so?"

"You will tell me," he answered with utter certainty. "You know that I do not take on anonymous clients whether they be royalty or commoner, so you knew I would insist on knowing yet you came anyway."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair. "I require the facts of a case straight from the horse's mouth as it were, and while no one can deny your gift for story telling, I need to hear the facts from your doctor friend if I'm to accept this case."

I knew Holmes was referring to my two attempts at publishing, a foray he regarded with some amusement if not outright disdain. He allowed me to make public those two cases reluctantly, so to hear from his lips that he considered my writing a 'gift' was a gift indeed.

"I suppose you're right, Holmes. I shall send word to him out tomorrow and ask him to stop by."

And with that Sherlock Holmes had to be satisfied.

o-o-o

Emily slept peacefully in the cot I'd brought into the sitting room. Mrs. Carmichael was old and half blind from cataracts, which made her an excellent housekeeper for a vampire who might possibly glint at times from the light entering the flat from the windows, but caring for a young girl, even a quiet and well behaved one like Emily, was taking its toll. I'd sent Mrs. Carmichael for a nap of her own in the spare room she now occupied for the duration of Emily's stay. Usually my housekeeper only came three afternoons a week to dust and clean the place. I'd pretend to be newly risen from my bed when she came, but now I had to pretend to sleep during the mornings at least, lest she begin to wonder if I ever slept at all.

As I sat by Emily's side and watched the slight rise and fall of her chest under her blanket, and heard the steady thrum of her heartbeat and the rush of blood in her veins, I couldn't regret my decision to take her in. She was so small and fragile. All humans were to some extent, but there was something about children that made them seem even more ephemeral than adults whose lives are, as the good book tells us, but a vapor.

As many centuries as I'd lived, I never could quite throw off the teachings of my father. I wondered what he'd think of me now, pretending to be a human, helping instead of preying upon them. Would it be enough to compensate for being a monster in his eyes?

I sighed. Some questions were unanswerable. Or the answers were there, and I didn't want to face them. Just as I didn't want to face my meeting with Mr. Holmes today.

Dr. Watson sent me a telegram, requesting my presence at Sherlock Holmes' lodgings this afternoon. I was to bring Emily as well. Soon I'd have to wake her, help her into her coat, hat, and gloves and take her there, but for now I was content to just watch her sleep.

I couldn't be involved in a police investigation. What if they wanted to interrogate me on a sunny day? Or thought that I had something to do with Mrs. Peterson's disappearance? I'd have to leave the life I'd carefully constructed years before I'd usually have to move on. With a private detective I was the client, the 'boss' in a sense, so it was a good deal less risky, yet those stories by Watson portrayed Sherlock Holmes as a very clever and observant man. I'd have to be extremely careful to appear human in every way.

The clock chimed on the mantelpiece. It was time to wake Emily and go.

o-o-o

Baker Street was located in a quiet residential part of the city. There were a few shops, but none of the frenetic bustle of the business district. I paid off the hansom cab driver and escorted Emily to the door. She clung to my hand, our gloves preventing our skin from touching. So far I'd avoided the inevitable recoil. Adults hid their reaction behind masks of politeness, but children never hid their first instinctive reaction to a hand that was unnaturally cold.

Emily shrank back against my legs and tightened her fingers when the door was opened by a short, grey haired woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson and led us upstairs.

"Here we are," she announced and knocked briefly before opening the door to Sherlock Holmes' lair.

"A visitor to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"Very good, Mrs. Hudson. Some tea if you please," came a voice from within. It was a strong voice, confident and carrying, and the slight creak of a chair, coupled with presence of two heartbeats warned me that Dr. Watson also awaited us.

The lady stepped back with the sound of starched petticoats rustling about her legs. She gave us a smile.

"Tea, then."

Her smile broadened and she whispered to Emily, "And I'll see if I can find a bit of cake to go with it."

Emily responded by burying her face against my leg. I shrugged apologetically, and Mrs. Hudson smiled back her understanding of the ways of small girls and left down the stairs.

"Come along, Emily," I prompted.

She sighed reluctantly and followed me through the doorway.

The room we entered was small but cozy. Two armchairs faced a fireplace with a cluttered mantel. Red-flocked wallpaper gave the room a sense of warmth, as did a chaise lounge set against the wall with a knitted lap rug thrown across it. There were side tables placed about the room, recently dusted and polished judging by the faint scent of lemon and beeswax that lingered around them. I took in the room quickly, and then focused my attention on Holmes.

He was a little above average in height, with a thin, lanky frame that made him appear taller than he actually was. There was an air of controlled energy about him, a sense of strength and intellect held in check as he stared back at me searchingly with keen eyes.

I swallowed back venom, a reflexive reaction to any perceived threat, and blinked, pretending to react to the change in light from the dim hallway to the well-lit room. Light or dark meant nothing to me, I could see perfectly well in either, but Holmes didn't need to know that.

"Dr. Carlisle Cullen? I am Sherlock Holmes, and you already know Dr. Watson."

"Yes of course. Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes."

We all shook hands. Watson's grip was hearty and given with a friendly though slightly anxious expression. He'd apologized in his telegram for insisting on a face to face meeting with Mr. Holmes, thereby thwarting my desire for anonymity. I could see that forcing me to come forward still bothered him.

Holmes' handshake was firm, brisk and businesslike. I was glad that my gloves still covered my hands, for he missed nothing. I was being assessed, measured, and visually dissected in a way that would have made me uncomfortable had I still been human. I forced a quick, slightly nervous smile on my face and glanced down at the child by my side.

"And this is Emily Peterson."

Overwhelmed by the presence of two strange men, Emily buried her face in my leg again.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Peterson," said Holmes neutrally, barely glancing at her.

His attention remained on me.

"Hallo, Emily!" Watson supplied. "How do you do today?"

A firm shake of the head was the only reply he got to his cheerful query. I sighed audibly and reached down to pick her up, setting her carefully on my hip as I'd seen mothers do in the hospital examining room.

"May I…?" I glanced over at the chaise lounge against the wall.

It was set to the side of a window, so no direct light would fall on me should the sun decide to come out from behind the thick clouds lowering darkly across the city. The gloomy weather was the only reason I'd decided to agree to Watson's request, that and my own inability to find Mrs. Peterson. My sense of smell was very good, but not good enough to track one woman's scent amidst hundreds of Londoners a full night after the fact.

"Of course," Holmes assented.

I sat down with the appropriate awkwardness of a man carrying a child, and swung Emily's legs gently across mine so that she was sitting on my lap, her arms around my neck and her face against my chest. I knew Emily could speak. I'd seen her following Mrs. Carmichael around the flat chattering away, and I'd held conversations with her myself, but I was beginning to despair that she'd be able to answer Holmes' questions.

That, it seemed, wasn't a problem, for he directed his questions solely to me.

He had me recount my meeting with Mrs. Peterson in copious detail. For once I didn't bother to pretend to a natural human forgetfulness, and told him everything I'd said and done, and everything Mrs. Peterson had said and done as well. The problem was, our visit was relatively short. She was a walk-in patient, driven to the hospital out of sheer desperation. Her headaches were so bothersome that both light and sound were excruciating to her when she was in their grip. I'd seen headaches like that before and prescribed some medicinal powders for her to take with water, but I knew that stress induced headaches would not fade unless the stress that caused them was absent.

A widow, recently bereaved, alone in the world with a child to care for? I could only hope that the powders would alleviate the worst of her symptoms and allow her to resume her work as a private singing teacher. As Holmes probed and questioned, I realized how little I actually knew of the woman. I did not know the families who employed her, or her maiden name. She'd spoken with sorrow of her husband's death, but I did not even know the name of the ship where he'd served as first mate.

"Not to worry, Dr. Cullen," Holmes reassured me. "That is something I can easily find out should it prove important. Now did she say anything about where she was going after the hospital?"

"I assumed she was going straight home," I replied. "It was past tea time and I'm sure Emily was getting hungry."

The little girl muttered something about chestnuts, drawing Holmes' eagle eye to her.

"Emily," I asked carefully. "Did you say something?"

She shook her head violently and refused to say anything more.

"Tea!" exclaimed Watson. "I wonder what's keeping Mrs. Hudson?"

He was attempting to pull Holmes' sharp, speculative eye off of Emily, for Holmes was staring at the girl as if he'd love to wrest the answers from her physically. I put my arms around her and patted her back gently, and a different sort of expression crossed his face fleetingly. Then he was up and out of his chair, striding across to the door and throwing it open to bellow, "Mrs. Hudson! Where is our…oh, there you are."

Mrs. Hudson who, (I could have told him) was just coming up the stairs with the tea tray, did not dignify Holmes' outburst with an answer.

She swept past him with the grace of a queen, and set the tray down on a side table.

"Cake, Mrs. Hudson?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows as he caught sight of slices of frosted plum cake in a dish by the teacups.

"I stopped by the bakery around the corner," the woman informed him smartly. "It was no trouble at all," she finished.

With a scathing look at Holmes, and a kinder one at Emily, she left no doubt as to whom she'd been willing to go to the trouble for. Then she swept back out of the room, head held high, and closed the door behind her.

Emily thawed enough to sit by my side instead of on my lap for tea. I pretended to sip, and merely picked at my cake with a fork.

"Is plum cake not to your liking, Dr. Cullen?" asked Holmes.

"I'm not one for sweets," I explained feebly, and pushed my plate back on the table. Emily gazed up at me wonderingly, unable to comprehend anyone who did not like cake.

"Too bad," commiserated Watson. "This cake is first rate, isn't that right Emily?" he asked, nodding towards the scant crumbs left on her plate.

She smiled shyly and bobbed her head, surprising us all.

Holmes' gaze rested on her for a moment, and then he stood.

"I believe it's time to visit the scene of the…er…incident," he announced.

He bustled us out of the room and into two hansom cabs in short order, and I found myself sharing a cab with Emily as we followed Holmes and Watson's cab through the streets of London. I was happy that the cake, tea, and the sway of the cab put Emily in a drowsy state. As she rested her head against my arm, I was able to listen in on the conversation in the cab in front of us. I could only catch snatches of it, for London is a very noisy town, and traffic sounds and conversations from pedestrians drowned out quite a bit of it.

What I did hear convinced me that I'd have to be on my guard around Sherlock Holmes. He asked Watson if he'd noticed anything odd about me, and tried to interrogate him about my background and training. Watson, of course, knew very little.

I smiled grimly. I'd attended medical school in one of the finest universities in Italy and presented my credentials to Saint Thomas's hospital within a year of matriculating, so my apparent youth wouldn't raise suspicions for several years yet as I'd only been working at Saint Thomas's for less than a decade. The Italians would confirm any inquiries about my ability to practice medicine, and I'd told them that I'd lived abroad with my family before setting myself to study medicine. Holmes would come to a dead end if he tried to trace my movements before medical school.

Watson, bless him, pronounced me a 'jolly good surgeon' and seemed oblivious to his friend's pointed questions about the hours I worked and my lack of appetite. I knew then that my pretense at drinking tea hadn't fooled him, so more stringent methods would be required.

The rest of their conversation appeared to be about the case. It turned out that Holmes purposely hadn't questioned Emily at his flat because he wanted her to get used to him first. He was bringing her back to the place where her mother disappeared in order to jog her memory before asking about it.

When Watson remonstrated, Holmes said something about children being more resilient than Watson knew.

Glancing down at the small body dozing beside me, I determined to monitor Holmes' interaction with Emily carefully.

I lost track of them after that when a cart cut between our two vehicles as we crossed London Bridge. The driver was singing a bawdy song off key, and I moved to cover Emily's ears before remembering that she couldn't hear it from inside the hansom cab. Trying to block out the cockney ditty as best I could, I concentrated on listening to Emily. Each breath was like a little miracle to me, for I only breathed now as a sham, or to enable speaking. Emily's breath drew air into her lungs and her heart beat steadily, circulating her blood through veins and arteries threaded throughout her body. Blood that I was able to resist after years of practice.

Her heart sped up a little as we reached our destination, the front of Saint Thomas's hospital. Holmes and Watson were waiting for us, having already alighted from their cab.

"Come along," he ordered, and set off at a brisk walk back towards the bridge. He stopped in front of Saint Olave's Church's doorway, where the foot traffic was a bit quieter. He gave me a sharp glance, and then bent over at the waist to speak to Emily.

"I have a strong craving for roasted chestnuts," he told her.

Watson and I shared a look of puzzlement. We'd just had tea. Holmes ignored us and went on, speaking softly and carefully as he looked directly into Emily's eyes.

"I think you might know of a good place to get some."

Emily stared back without speaking, still not entirely sure of what to make of Holmes. I sympathized. He was the most intimidating human I'd met in years. My hired detective had a mind of his own, and I almost regretted hiring him.

Holmes stood up straight and held out his hand.

"Can you show me where your mother bought you chestnuts?"

Emily stared at the outstretched hand doubtfully for a moment, then nodded, took it, and set off in the direction of the bridge.

"We can't go over the bridge without Mama," she said firmly as we came near the stone thoroughfare.

The bridge, designed by John Rennie in the 1820s to replace the medieval one I recalled from my youth, was packed with vehicles and pedestrians. I could understand why Mrs. Peterson did not want her daughter traveling over it despite the stone balustrades protecting travelers from falling off it into the Thames.

"Just so," Holmes agreed. He led us across the street, dodging traffic carefully. Nevertheless, I placed myself between Emily and the flow of the carts coming off the bridge.

Safely on the other side of the bridge's entrance, the child led us down a cross street to an open space on a corner where a bit of grass and trees, the closest thing to a park near the bridge, could be seen over a wrought iron fence. It was by the site of the old Clink Prison yard, now a mass of shops and warehouses where street vendors plied their trade. One of them sold roasted chestnuts in twisted cones of paper.

"There," Emily pointed at the man. "Mama bought me chestnuts there."

"And I shall buy you some more," Holmes assured her. "Would anyone else care to indulge?"

"I'd like some," I said quickly.

Holmes raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment.

"Watson?" he asked.

"I won't say no to good English chestnuts on a cold day," the doctor replied, pulling his coat collar up to protect his neck from the brisk air.

Holmes nodded and made his purchases.

Eating human food is an uncomfortable experience for a vampire. The smell of food doesn't exactly nauseate, but it no longer instills hunger or anticipation. It's like smelling the scent of a flower. It's pleasant, but it doesn't make you want to eat it. I chewed and swallowed the chestnuts mechanically, knowing that I'd have to regurgitate them eventually now that my body no longer digested human food. Holmes saw me eat, that was the important thing.

We ended up sitting on the stone base of the wrought iron fence near the corner, munching on the snack.

"So Emily," Holmes asked casually. "What happened after your mother bought you the chestnuts?"

"We sat down here," she replied.

"So I guessed," Holmes said dryly. The fence was the only place to sit on the street.

"Mama didn't have any chestnuts. She said they were just for me."

I winced a little at that, imagining that the expense of the hospital had made Mrs. Peterson careful with her money. She'd bought her child food, but none for herself.

"And did she stay with you as you ate?"

Emily shrugged. "I think so."

"When did you notice she was gone?" Holmes asked, keeping his tone disinterested and calm.

"After she saw the man."

"What man?" Holmes' voice remained the same, but I heard the paper cone in his hand contract with the tightening of his fingers.

"The wrong one."

"Your mother said he was, 'wrong'?"

Emily dropped a chestnut and sighed. I reached over and gave her one of mine. She smiled at me and then answered Holmes.

"She said, 'That's not right, he can't be here.' If he wasn't right, that makes him wrong," Emily pointed out with a child's idea of reasonable logic.

"And did you see him, this wrong man?"

Emily shook her head. "I was eating. Mama said to wait here and she'd be right back. She went across the street, and I finished eating but she never came back."

Her lip began to quiver.

"That's enough, Holmes," I said sharply and picked her up, rising to my feet. "I'm taking Emily home now."

I expected some resistance, but didn't get it. Watson stood as well, and patted Emily on the shoulder as she began sniffling.

"There, there, my dear. Dr. Cullen will take care of you," he said comfortingly.

"By all means," Holmes agreed. "We'll contact you when we have any further information."

I nodded warily, and walked back to the bridge, found a cab and gave Emily into Mrs. Carmichael's care. I was forced to trust in Mr. Holmes, and it rankled that I, a vampire with superhuman abilities, couldn't find one human woman in London. Swallowing my bitterness, I made my way to the hospital where I could do some good.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Sherlock Holmes is indefatigable when on a case. I believe we interviewed every food stall owner, and every shopkeeper on the street before we found one who remembered seeing a 'lady in a faint' being helped into a carriage by a 'nice gentleman'. After much questioning, the shopkeeper remembered that the 'nice gentleman' walked strangely, but beyond that we learned nothing else of importance save that the man wore a bowler hat, which to the shopkeeper's mind automatically qualified him as a gentleman.

"Come Watson," Holmes told me after he'd wrung what he could out of the shopkeeper. "We're off to the Petersons' flat."

"How do you know where it is?"

Holmes smiled.

"After you sent the telegram to Dr. Cullen, I sent one of my Baker Street irregulars with a dunning notice for Peterson to the offices of the shipping company he worked for. I've found that overdue bills are like the proverbial hot potato. No one wants to keep them in hand for long. The shipping company sent the lad off to Peterson's widow in short order."

"But how on earth did you know that Peterson had an ovedue bill?…Oh." I answered my own question. "You made up the bill, didn't you?"

Holmes nodded. "Young Tom suggested a sweetshop bill, but I found a tailor shop bill to be a bit more believable."

"Ah."

How Holmes kept track of the names of his Irregulars was a mystery to me. The mob of street boys who seem to have adopted him as their rather austere patron saint came and went with appalling regularity. Most were homeless and glad of the funds Holmes dispensed whenever they performed a task for him. Spying on suspects, following them, delivering notices, it was all a sort of a lark to them, given special importance because they were doing it for the great detective.

In short order we bespoke a hansom cab and found ourselves clip-clopping back over London Bridge to a set of modest, slightly run down buildings several streets back from the river. Mrs. Peterson lived in the building on the end on the fourth floor.

I certainly hoped she received a discount for the position of her lodgings, for the four flights of stairs proved daunting. My old wound from Afghanistan began to ache by the third set of stairs.

Devastation is the only word fit to describe what we found at the top of the last steep flight of stairs. A man lay prone and groaning across the threshold, with a deep gash across his forehead, barely conscious. I ran to him, Holmes at my side, but not without getting a look at the room within through the door that hung drunkenly by one remaining hinge.

Holmes pushed past the wounded man, enjoining me to tend to him, and strode into a sea of papers, stuffing from a horsehair chair, bits of shattered crockery and the ruins of table, chair, and bookcase. Not one piece of furniture remained intact. Slashed clothing, mutilated books, even a child's doll hadn't escaped the wrath of whoever had desecrated Mrs. Peterson's home. The doll lay on the floor by the entrance, one arm and the head torn off, a button eye hanging by one thread.

My patient had faired a bit better. When I roused him enough to sit up, he complained of the devil of a headache, but he knew his own name, the date, and saw the correct number of fingers I held before his eyes. His forearms were marked with blows from an assailant, and only his thick mat of salt and pepper hair had saved him from a fractured skull. I bound up the head wound as best I could with my handkerchief while Holmes crouched down on the floor to question him.

"What happened here?"

The man stared incredulously.

"What does it look like? Two bleedin' bastards broke in and tore up the place. Who're you anyway?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and the man tending to your wound, free of charge I might add, is Dr. Watson."

A gleam of reluctant appreciation graced the man's eye when Holmes mentioned that my services were free of charge. I forbore telling the man that it was my Christian duty to tend the wounded, and I would have helped him for free no matter what, because I realized Holmes was trying to instill a feeling of indebtedness in the man. This must be the landlord that Cullen said was more concerned for the loss of Mrs. Peterson's rent than her safety.

"That should do it," I said, and tied the ends of the kerchief around the man's head.

"Thanks," he muttered and tried to rise from his seated position on the floor, winced, and sank back down.

"You mustn't try to stand too fast," I warned him. "You'll just fall down again."

"What do you want?" he growled suspiciously.

"Information," Holmes answered him. "What did the two men look like?"

The man scowled in concentration. "Black haired, the both of them. One tall, one short. Short one was a mean sod. Snuck behind me when the bigger bloke was smashing at me with a pry bar. The big lout wore a bowler hat, but he was no gentleman, not that one. Had a bit of a scar cross his nose. Little one looked like a rat, small and mean."

"And how did you discover them?"

"Pushed past me, didn't they? Said they were friends of Mrs. Petersons and she'd asked them to wait upstairs for her. I told them I wasn't going to let them in. I don't let anyone in my tenants' rooms without their say so, but they said they didn't mind waiting outside her flat. I didn't like the looks of those two so I went up the stairs after them and found the door like this, and those two rooting around inside."

He stared in disgust at the ruined portal and shoved at it with the palm of his hand, causing it to bend even more precariously from the bent metal hinge vainly attempting to hold it in place.

"I'd told that other bloke I wouldn't let him in, and he went away, but not that lot. I knew they were trouble."

"Other bloke?" inquired Holmes gently.

"The doctor bloke. Blonde haired, pale-ish. Came by a day or so ago. He was a gentleman right enough, but that did him no good. No one gets into my tenants' rooms, not when they pay good money for 'em."

Holmes and I shared a glance. The landlord verified Cullen's story that he'd tried to go to Mrs. Petersons' dwelling but had received naught but grief from her landlord.

"Watson, perhaps you could assist this gentleman downstairs and see that he's taken care of."

"What about the mess? I have to get the constables in now like as not, and the fool woman up and left and hasn't come back. Who's going to pay for the door and clean up this mess, I'd like to know?"

"I'm sure something can be arranged," said Holmes and shrugging the man's arm over his shoulder, as I copied the gesture from the other side, we got the landlord up and on his feet.

I escorted him slowly down the stairs, pausing once as he emptied the contents of his stomach on the second floor landing. We made it to the first floor apartment where I relinquished him into the care of his mother, a woman of strong opinions and vociferous in her disapproval of the way he'd handled the ruffians when the story came out. As it turned out, she and not her son owned the property. I exited as soon as I could and left them to their discussion. It was little wonder the man was in a perpetual foul mood.

Breathing a bit more heavily than normal, I attained the fourth floor yet again and found Holmes crouched down gazing at something amid the wreckage.

"Ah, Watson, come over here and have a look."

"What, pray tell, am I looking at?" I asked, hunkering down next to Holmes. Half a teacup, a slew of sheet music, and a small notebook tiny enough to fit in a lady's reticule, graced the floor. Holmes pointed to the notebook which lay face up.

"An address book?" I asked rhetorically.

The page that lay open had but one name on it, a Maude Cummins-Thatcher with an address in Chicago.

Holmes nodded. "Note the open page, Watson. Whoever searched these room threw this book down with everything else he searched, and when it fell it opened to this page, signifying that the book's spine was bent open to this page at some point in the recent past."

He picked up the small book and showed me where the spine had creased near one side.

"Didn't Dr. Cullen say he'd discovered the address of Mrs. Peterson's cousin in America?" he asked reflectively.

"Well yes, but surely not by this," I gestured to the address book. "The landlord said it himself, Cullen wasn't allowed in. Besides, how do you know that this Maude woman is Mrs. Peterson's cousin and not a mere friend or acquaintance?"

Holmes shifted and lifted another larger book off the floor.

"According to the genealogy in the family Bible, Cummins was Mrs. Peterson's maiden name."

"Then you think that Cullen broke in? I can't imagine him doing anything of the sort," I protested. "Besides, he'd have been heard, if not by the landlord then by his mother. That woman has ears like a hound dog," I muttered.

The lady in question had been standing in the doorway when I assisted her son down the last flight of stairs, already complaining about the vomiting on the landing one flight above, which she'd evidently heard from inside her flat.

"Hmm," Holmes responded. "It's a puzzle indeed, but the more pressing matter would be finding what the tall and short, er, 'blokes' were looking for."

"What makes you think that they didn't find it before they left?"

My friend stood and gestured at the mess. "Had they found it halfway through a search, half of these rooms would be intact. Since the pace of their search grew more savage and destructive towards the end - note the intact nature of the Bible and address book, items usually located in a bedroom, and the torn music books which appear to have been stored in that bookcase," he nodded to the empty and upended item, "They didn't find what they were looking for, and they left frustrated. We must be smarter than they. Let's begin."

And with that, Holmes turned and entered the bedroom, leaving me to poke through the flotsam and jetsam of Mrs. Peterson's belongings.

Time passed, and it grew quiet in the bedroom. I found the doll's arm and more from sentiment than hope, reunited it with its head and torso, diligently pressing the stuffed body to see if anything was concealed therein. That was when I noticed that the sound of shuffling had ceased from the room Holmes was searching.

I entered the bedroom with its slashed mattresses and piles of clothing, to find Holmes standing between a toppled wardrobe and what looked like an upended desk or bureau, judging from the wooden drawers half in and half out of it. He was staring at the windowsill in the wall.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.

"Paint flakes," he answered without turning. "This window was once painted shut, but now it opens."

"That was very enterprising of Mrs. Peterson," I muttered.

My own home had had a window painted to the sill in an upstairs room. I supposed it had once been a nursery, but Mary wished to use it for a spare room, and we'd had the devil of a time getting it open. I looked and saw a hairline crack at the top of the window, and whistled softly.

"It looks like the window opened rather too quickly," I commented.

Holmes put his hand on the bottom of the glass pane.

His eyes met mine in the reflection from the window. It must have been an aberration in the glass, for I could swear that Holmes looked troubled for a moment. Then the moment passed and he turned to face me.

"Come, Watson, our job here is done."

"What?"

He tapped his front breast pocket. "A packet of letters from Mr. Peterson to his wife. They were in a hidden compartment at the back of the desk. I've seen a similar design in Chinese furniture. Because our two miscreants merely knocked it over instead of smashing it to bits, they missed it.

"But Holmes, surely a man's letters to his wife are…are…sacrosanct!"

I blushed a bit as I remembered things I'd written to Mary during our courtship, things I'd prefer no one see but her.

Holmes grew somber. "I doubt somehow that the lady is in any state to object anymore."

"You don't mean…"

He nodded. "I fear Mrs. Peterson is dead. Were she alive she could have been compelled to tell these men where to look."

"Poor Emily," I said, thinking of the quiet little girl who'd been to tea with us.

"Her doll?" queried Holmes.

With a start, I realized that I still held the rag doll in my hands.

"Yes, I thought that perhaps Mary could mend it for her."

A smile played about Holmes' lips. "Watson, you restore my faith in mankind," he said.

"It's just a doll," I muttered self-consciously and stuffed it in my coat pocket. I never knew when Holmes was amusing himself at my expense.

We left the flat and made our way out of the building and onto the street where we parted ways, Holmes to peruse the letters and I back home to my wife.

o-o-o

I carried Emily home from the street where we left Holmes and Watson. It was simpler than hailing a hansom cab, and I didn't live very far from the hospital. I owned a suite of rooms in a building of dressed stone in the classical style on a busy thoroughfare. The noise didn't bother me, since I didn't need to sleep. I also owned a hunting lodge in the country for when visits to the stockyards began to pall. So long as I butchered and hung the drained carcass up on a hook to look as if it had been drained naturally through gravity, no one was the wiser. I fancied the stockyard workers appreciated the extra help.

After giving Emily over into my housekeeper's tender care, I went on to the hospital in plenty of time for my shift. I completed my scheduled operations for the evening, made my rounds, and treated the odd emergency patients who came in during the early morning hours. Right before dawn I left the hospital and made my way back to my flat.

"Oh Mr. Cullen, you're home!"

Mrs. Carmichael jumped up from her chair and rushed to meet me as I surveyed the splintered doorframe and wreck of what had been the locking mechanism on my front door. I hadn't bothered to put my key in the lock since the door was ajar when I arrived. Obviously someone had followed me home some time after I'd left the vicinity of the bridge in Emily's company.

The child's heartbeat and respiration were steady and untroubled in the next room. She was alive and well. I felt a surge of relief, then the crashing descent of trepidation as I saw the distress on Mrs. Carmichael's face. Traces of tears remained around her eyes, which were red rimmed from weeping. The color made the cataracts clouding her eyes seem more pronounced. She'd been a tall, stout woman though her once robust figure was now stooped a bit with age. She cleaned my lodgings more by touch and memory than sight nowadays. She'd missed some fragments of porcelain and a large drop of blood lingered amid the traces of mop strokes, long since dried, that lay across the parquet floor of my entry hall.

"What happened?" I asked, taking her arm and leading her back to the chair she'd been sitting in. There was no scent of blood on her, so it wasn't her blood on the floor.

"Is it Emily? Is something wrong with her?"

"No, no. Miss Emily is fine," she answered, bunching the fabric of the apron lying over her sensible black skirt. "It was a man. He broke in! I was just going to make myself a pot of tea. Emily was asleep, but I couldn't nod off. I don't sleep much anymore…"

I patted her shoulder. She was right. I'd noticed that elderly people like Mrs. Carmichael often had trouble sleeping through the night. It was as though their bodies didn't want to waste any of the time they had left in slumber. Others sank into sleep more and more as their bodies wound down like a clock that needed rewinding, advancing slowly and dreamily to the time when they'd stop altogether. The human life cycle, with its endless variations, was fascinating.

Mrs. Carmichael took a deep breath, steadied herself, and continued her story.

"I heard a noise by the door. I thought perhaps you'd forgotten something and came back for it though it was past midnight. There was a man, a strange man in the doorway, and I knew I'd locked the door. He was holding something long and metal. I thought it was a knife!" She shuddered. "I didn't know what to do. I grabbed hold of the first thing that came to hand and threw it as hard as I could."

I noticed she was hunching one shoulder. No doubt she'd strained it. I'd have to be sure to use a compress on it, and forbid her any strenuous housecleaning duties for a few days.

"It hit him."

I bit back a smile at the surprise in the lady's voice.

"He swore at me and started towards me so I screamed and screamed. If Mr. Miller hadn't been coming up the stairs just then I don't know what he would have done to me. The Prentices came out and started shouting for the constable."

It looked like I'd have to apologize to the Prentices for the disturbance. They were a cantankerous couple who enjoyed nothing more than complaining. They were well suited to each other. Miller wouldn't need an apology as he probably wouldn't even remember the incident. He was the younger son of a rich merchant. He played at working in his father's firm by day so that he could spend his nights in riotous living.

"What happened then?" I asked soothingly.

"The man ran away."

"And he didn't return?"

"No." Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. "But the door wouldn't lock up again so I had to stay and wait up and watch to be sure he didn't return."

I drew a breath, and braced myself.

"Did the Prentices find a constable?"

That would complicate matters.

"No, they said there was no point since the thief got away. They went back to bed."

How like them, I thought angrily, to leave a vulnerable old woman frightened and alone but for a small child. They'd complain for months afterward about the fright it gave them, without sparing an ounce of compassion for my housekeeper who'd been far more traumatized than they.

"What of Mr. Miller?" Perhaps he'd offered her a word of comfort.

"Drunk and useless," Mrs. Carmichael pronounced succinctly, straightening her back in disapproval.

"And you're sure you're unharmed?"

"I'm well. Emily was a little frightened by the noise, but I got her to go back to sleep." The old woman's voice softened fondly. "She's a good girl."

I agreed. Emily Peterson was a sweet, well-behaved child. Quiet and shy around strangers, she was also sunny and talkative when she forgot to be sad. The poor girl had much to be sad about. She missed her mother dreadfully, yet no child could be sad all the time. It was the way of humans to adapt, survive, and to endure changed circumstances.

"Mrs. Carmichael, you are a jewel among women. I am grateful to you beyond measure for all that you have done. Please, retire to your room. You must be exhausted."

Instead of looking pleased by my words, the old lady pressed her lips together and bowed her head.

"I cannot, sir. Not without confessing first."

"Confessing?"

She bobbed her grey haired head. "The only thing I could find to throw at the man was the vase."

She pointed to an alcove set in the wall between the entry hall and the kitchen, an alcove that was conspicuously empty.

"I'm ever so sorry Dr. Cullen. I know it must have been worth a pretty penny. You can dock my pay if you like. I tried to see if it could be mended, but there were too many pieces, so I cleared them away and put them in the dust bin."

She threw her apron over her head and began to cry.

I winced. The vase had been a relic of the early Ming dynasty. It was worth far more than my housekeeper made in a year, even if I doubled her wages. Patting Mrs. Carmichael's heaving shoulder gently, I coaxed her apron off her head and got her to look at me.

"My dear woman," I said, exuding as much of an air of sympathy and charm as I could manage, and as a vampire I could manage a great deal of charm.

"What is a vase to the preservation of your life? Human life is precious, and I'd much rather have you and Emily alive and well than some frippery bit of crockery. So far as I'm concerned, you defended that little girl with the bravery of a true Englishwoman. Please, dry your tears. Now how about a cup of tea?" I smiled warmly. "I think we both could use one."

By the time I calmed her down and got her to bed, dawn was lightening the cloud layer outside the windows. Emily would sleep for another hour or two, which gave me just enough time to investigate in the cold grey morning outside.

I dropped to the entry hall floor next to the blood spot left behind by the intruder and sniffed. I didn't believe the Prentices' conclusion that the man was a thief who came to steal from me. My lodgings were purposefully middle class, and there was nothing much of value in them apart from the vase and a few paintings which only a trained eye could determine were indeed originals from the masters. I'd only had colleagues from the hospital over for drinks (it's easier to feign drinking than eating) and all of them were respectable doctors, not given to larceny.

The smell permeated my nostrils. It's difficult to describe the intoxication of blood. It's hunger, thirst, desire, and need all rolled into one. I could and did resist the siren pull of it, but the allure would always remain. As I inhaled I caught a bit of sandalwood and rum. The 'thief' preferred cheap cologne and the liquor of choice for sailors. Someone from the docks perhaps? There were a lot of unsavory characters down there who hired their services out to anyone who asked. The question was, who had asked such a person to break into my flat, and why?

Making a mental note to call upon a locksmith, I set out through the ruined portal and descended to the streets.

At dawn London comes alive. Tradesmen begin to descend on the city with wagonloads of supplies from the country or from ships off the docks. Already the rattle of wheels on cobblestones, the huffing of horses' breath and the crack of leather whips above their heads could be heard on the street. Workers hurried down the sidewalks to get to jobs that began unconscionably early, huddled against the cold, and pulling their hats down further over their ears for warmth. As I stepped out of my building, a wagon carrying a load of hay for some livery stable passed by. I inhaled deeply through my nose.

I might not be able to track one human's scent hours after the fact, but fresh blood? The smell lingered on the air like a courtesan's perfume, long after she'd gone. I expected it to be faint, but there! My nose pointed unerringly to a lamppost down the street where a man was leaning.

He was dark haired, small boned, and looked furtive and out of place in his rough clothing and unshaven jaw. His hands were thrust in the pockets of a long coat, one side of which hung closer to the ground from the weight of a bar-like item. It must be the 'knife' Mrs. Carmichael thought she saw, yet it seemed heavier, more solid than a blade. Perhaps a pry-bar? He must have used it to break my lock and wrench the door open.

What convinced me that I had my man wasn't the rat-like villainous features or his clothing, it was the kerchief end peeping out from under his cap. He'd used it as a bandage, but I could still smell the scent of blood on it. My nostrils flared.

The man glanced up, saw me, froze for an instant, then bolted down the street.

The hunt was on. A wave of primitive joy raced through me. This is what my body craved, to hunt, to conquer, to drink. I stamped down on the bloodlust coursing through me and took off after the man.

There were too many people around for me to use my vampiric speed. It was annoying to rein myself in, but there was nothing for it but to run at a much slower pace than I was capable of. Harder to resist was the urge to kill. This man had violated my privacy, had broken in to my home and threatened Emily and Mrs. Carmichael's safety and security.

He knocked a pedestrian into a wall in his haste to get away from me. I dodged the same man by leaping over his legs, which were sprawled across the sidewalk. I muttered a quick apology as I went by. We came to the end of the street. My prey glanced back, wide-eyed, and plunged across it, cutting left towards the Thames River, which was several blocks away. The side street he chose was a short one, ending in a busier street, and there were no pedestrians on it.

I grinned savagely and moved faster, until I heard a startled oath behind me and realized the pedestrians on the street behind me could glance down the side street and see me.

The man glanced back, saw how close I was, and put on a burst of speed. He disappeared around the corner of a brick building at the end of the street. I followed and found myself on the sidewalk of a larger one, and the man rapidly approaching an intersection.

He glanced back again, and a look of terror crossed his face. I realized I was still grimacing with feral joy and schooled my expression to one of blank concentration.

The man was forced to stop momentarily for a heavy cart that blocked his way. He dodged around the back of it just as I came to the edge of the sidewalk.

He never saw the wagon of lumber coming from the opposite direction. He ran right into its path, and it ran over him. I heard the scream of the horses as they shied, but he was right in their path. They knocked him down, and the wheels of the cart did the rest. I came around the cart in time to see his head smack down on the dirty cobblestones as the cart went up and over his chest, crushing his ribcage and his heart. He was dead before the second set of wheels ran over him.

There was blood, lots of it. The shattered ribcage punctured the skin of his upper torso and it stained his shirt and coat. I felt my eyes going black with longing for it.

I saw blood at the hospital all the time, but venom rarely pooled in my mouth at the sight of it anymore. I never chased my patients down the streets before seeing their blood however, so my hunting instincts were never at the fore in Saint Thomas's. I had to leave.

Turning my back on the horrified crowd beginning to gather, I walked away. I'd get no information from the man now. I could only hope that Sherlock Holmes would have more success in his endeavors.

TO BE CONTINUED…

A/N: Has anyone seen the Sherlock Holmes movie with Robert Downey Junior yet? I wasn't as disappointed with the poetic license taken by the movie-makers as I thought I'd be. I'd be interested in hearing what reviewers thought of it.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Note to Viola, there is a spoiler alert in this chapter for one of Conan Doyle's stories. Since you're reading through his Sherlock Holmes stories, I thought you should know.

Special thanks to Gleena for recommending my stories! This chapter is dedicated to you.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was nearly a fortnight before Dr. Cullen and I were summoned to Holmes' rooms in Baker Street. I'd visited Cullen's lodgings previously to give Emily her doll back. She was quite happy to receive it, and clutched it to herself, running over to the fireplace to sit before the fire, patting its head and talking and singing to it as if it were a valued friend.

"It's a good thing you've done, Dr. Watson," Cullen's housekeeper told me, tears in her eyes. "I've not heard her sing since she came."

The lady, Mrs. Carmichael, hadn't wanted to let me in as her employer was at work that evening. She warmed up considerably when I told her that I was an associate of Sherlock Holmes who'd been hired by Cullen to find little Emily's mother.

I left my best regards for Dr. Cullen and decamped, my heart and step lighter than it had been before I arrived.

The afternoon when Holmes' summons occurred was a cold one. Snow began to fall that morning and continued intermittently all day. I arrived first and found Holmes at his window, playing his violin as he gazed out on the street below.

"Watson, good, you're here. Do sit down," he enjoined me, sparing me barely a glance as he continued to play.

Used to his ways, I took off my coat and hat and hung them on the rack by the door. Mrs. Hudson had delivered a pot of tea which was steaming on the table. Without standing on ceremony I poured myself a cup.

"What are you playing?" I asked curiously. The music was unnerving.

"Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain," came Holmes' reply. "I thought it appropriate."

I shrugged. My friend's taste in music was incomprehensible.

"Ah," Holmes removed his bow from the strings. "Here's Cullen."

He tapped the glass with his bow and waved, staring intently downwards, then he smiled grimly and stepped back.

"He's on his way up," he announced unnecessarily.

I nodded absently, sipped my tea and wished for cake.

A knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson's "Dr. Cullen to see you Mr. Holmes," preceded the gentleman into the room.

"My dear sir, take off your coat!" Holmes ordered and strode over to assist him, shaking snowflakes from the garment onto the rug, and hanging it up next to mine. He sat him at the table next to me and insisted he pour himself some tea.

Cullen did so, took a large gulp of it, and looked at Holmes searchingly.

"What have you found out? The suspense is killing me."

My friend's lips twitched in a way that usually denoted humor, but surely not in this case! Cullen's statement was nothing to laugh about. Holmes sobered soon enough and sat in his armchair facing us across the table.

"I'm afraid it is bad news, very bad indeed." He hunched forward in his chair, set his elbows on the armrests and rested his chin on his clasped fist. "Mrs. Peterson has been murdered."

Cullen set his teacup down, eyes tormented. "I suspected as much when I didn't hear from you for days. How did she…?"

"A knock on the head I believe. Either that or drowning, for the murderer threw her body into the Thames. I found a fragment of green wool material on a dock down by the river."

"See here, Holmes. How do you know it belonged to Mrs. Peterson? I'm sure there are lots of women walking about in green wool," I objected. I didn't want it to be true.

"The wool was located on a dock across the street from where I believe the murderer is hiding. It is the worst area of the Thames, and I regret to say that Mrs. Peterson's is not the first body to be disposed of at that site."

"But why?" Cullen broke out. "Why kill her? What had she done to deserve such a fate in the eyes of her killer?"

Holmes leaned back suddenly in his chair.

"What does any innocent victim do? Does evil really need a reason?"

"You are waxing philosophical, Mr. Holmes," Cullen told him reproachfully. "I need to know the reason."

"Yes," Holmes agreed thoughtfully. "You do. Here it is then. Mrs. Peterson is not the only victim in this story. Her husband and many others perished first."

"I know about the shipwreck that took his life," Cullen said impatiently.

"Not a shipwreck," Holmes corrected. "It was murder. The shipping company that owned the ship has been in financial difficulty for years now. They, or rather the owner of the company, decided to collect the insurance on the ship that Mr. Peterson served on. With the collusion of the captain and the second mate, they sent the ship off course during stormy weather, made sure another ship saw them headed into dangerous waters, then murdered the rest of the crew, including Peterson, and took the ship to a foreign port. There it was repainted, altered architecturally, and sold. The company collected the insurance money, claiming the ship was lost at sea. They also pocketed the purchase price of the ship itself, with no one the wiser until now."

"I don't understand, why kill Peterson's widow?"

"The guilty flee when no man pursueth," quoted Holmes. "Peterson was a faithful letter writer. Watson and I found the packet of letters he wrote his wife when he was at sea. The captain evidently thought that Peterson was suspicious of him, and so when he came back to England incognito, he and his henchman, the second mate, kept an eye on her, hence Mrs. Peterson's sense that a 'malevolent presence' was watching her. They knew of Peterson's letters of course, and were waiting for a chance to steal them in case Peterson had written anything that incriminated them."

"Letters?" Cullen echoed.

Holmes nodded. "The letters themselves were innocuous. Peterson wrote of his dislike of the captain and the distrust that existed between them, but there was nothing definitive. It was Mrs. Peterson's misfortune that she recognized the captain on the street that day. Among the letters was a photograph of Peterson and his crewmates dressed in costume at some sort of holiday event. The captain wore a false beard. He's grown a real one that looks remarkably similar. Mrs. Peterson saw him and recognized her husband's formerly clean-shaven boss. She walked across the street to confront him. He pulled her into an alley, struck her, and got her into a carriage before she could tell anyone that she'd seen a 'ghost' from her husband's ship."

"The blow killed her immediately?" Cullen asked.

Holmes nodded. "I expect so. Had she lived, the captain and his second mate would have tortured her until she told them where she'd hidden her husband's letters. As it were they broke into her flat and searched it without finding them."

"Holmes found them," I interjected. "But where is the captain now?"

"He's alone in hiding in a rooming house near the Thames."

"And the second mate?" I asked, anxious that both should be caught and brought to justice.

Holmes stared intently at Cullen. "He died in a traffic accident, run over by a cart," he said slowly and deliberately.

Cullen broke eye contact and looked away.

"So, Cullen, what is it you'd like to do?" he asked the doctor quietly.

I stared from one to the other, not understanding the sudden tension in the air.

"Why, we must call on Scotland Yard to apprehend the man, of course!" I answered for Cullen. What else was there to do?

"Yes," Cullen agreed, raising his eyes once again to meet Holmes's penetrating gaze. "Let Scotland Yard capture him."

Silence reigned in 221 B Baker Street for a long moment, then Cullen stood.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I shall arrange to have my bank transfer your fee before I go."

"Go?" I repeated blankly.

"I've decided to take Emily to her relatives in America. I've been wanting a change for some time now, and Chicago would be a new start for the both of us."

"My dear fellow," I exclaimed, rising from my chair. "Saint Thomas's loss will be Chicago's gain. I know Aubrey will regret your going immensely. He has only the most complimentary things to say of you."

Cullen looked embarrassed. "I'm sure I will miss all my colleagues at the hospital, and you too, Dr. Watson. Emily has not stopped playing with her doll since you brought it by. It is a great comfort to her."

Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. "Think nothing of it, my dear chap."

Holmes stood at last and brought Cullen his coat.

"I'm only sorry it took me so long to solve the case," he told him. "I had to go undercover to find out how much the ship was insured for, and to locate the captain of course. I also needed to use my contact in the government for information on ships and travel." He held up Cullen's coat so that the man could shrug into it. "The British government keeps closer watch over the comings and goings of its citizen-travelers than you might imagine."

Cullen froze for a moment, then turned with a smile. "Is that so, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes."

Holmes thrust out his hand to shake.

"Godspeed, Dr. Cullen."

Looking a little dazed at so sudden a dismissal, he shook the great detective's hand and made his way out the door.

"Holmes?" I asked after the door was closed. "Whatever did you press into his hand as he left?"

I'd seen a brief flash of white in my friend's palm just before he shook Cullen's hand.

"Oh that?" he explained artlessly. "I gave him my business card. Now, what do you say for some shepherd's pie? I've a sudden urge for warmth and the conviviality of a crowded English pub."

I blinked at the change in topic, but agreed. Life was never predictable with Sherlock Holmes for a friend.

o-o-o

I took the small white business card out of my pocket and looked at it again.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

I flipped it over and looked at the message scrawled on the back.

"London Bridge, 6:30 in the morning."

So here I was, leaning over the wrought iron railing on the quay at the side of John Rennie's bridge, staring down at the grey water of the Thames. I'd stopped by Saint Olave's on my way, pausing to stare up at its hallowed, ancient stonework. Holmes had paused here as well after we'd alighted from our hansom cabs in front of Saint Thomas's Hospital when he took Emily to the scene of her mother's abduction. I wondered if he'd done it on purpose, to see if I'd shy away from so prominent a Christian landmark. I hadn't, of course. I still kept my father's wooden cross from the vicarage where I'd grown up. I planned to take it with me to America too.

The bridge was already in use, though not as busy as it would be later in the day. I stared moodily at its underpinnings, the large stone pontoon-shaped bases anchored the downward strokes of the series of arched stone, which supported the roadway above. Bits of ice floated by beneath the arches. The water would be bitter cold to a human.

"Remembering the old bridge?" asked Holmes as he came up alongside and leaned his elbows against the iron railing.

I smiled briefly. John Rennie's bridge replaced the old medieval one near sixty years ago. I've been able to pass for a man in his late twenties, early thirties if I pushed it.

"The frost fair, actually." I said and felt him start in surprise beside me. I chuckled inwardly. "I never saw it myself, you understand. My grandfather told me stories of when the river froze solid under the old bridge. There were archery contests and dances held right there," I nodded toward the river. "In later years when the river froze people would set up booths and stalls, and there were even horse races. I was gone from England by then, so I missed seeing this bridge being built, but I understand that because of its design, the Thames no longer freezes solid hereabouts. I've missed much in my time away from England."

"Ah." Holmes digested this, then got to the point.

"What are you? You're not human," he stated with certainty.

"How do you know?" I was curious, not confrontational.

Holmes looked at me and held my gaze unflinchingly. He was not without courage, this detective.

"You forget to breathe sometimes. When you entered the hansom cab it sank lower than it should have for a man of your weight. The only other time I've seen a hansom sink like that on its axles was a case where I was accompanying a circus strongman, a gentleman of solid muscle and a great deal bulkier than you. Snow does not melt on you. I noticed that yesterday when I brushed some on your neck from off your coat when I took it from you. Your hands are cold. While Watson might attribute that to a warm heart, I do not. You also chose a job that keeps you inside during the daylight hours. You said that you found Mrs. Peterson's cousin's address, yet her landlord swore that you'd never been in her apartment. I found the paint chips where you wrenched open her window to search her flat for her address book, a window located at the top of the building with no ledge and no marks from pitons or mountain climbers' shoes – which is the only other way a person could have entered that window, since there's no access from the roof."

"And your conclusion?" I asked blandly. The leap from street level to window had been a gamble I was willing to risk in order to find Emily's kin.

Holmes struck his hand against the railing, stepped back from it and gave a bark of laughter.

"I've predicated my career on one immutable axiom, that when all the facts are collected, the theory that fits them all, when you've eliminated the impossible, must be the truth, however improbable it may seem. You sir, are the impossible. Your physiological idiosyncrasies and habits argue that you are not human, but what you are…ah therein lies the rub. Watson chides me for my lack of interest in current literary trends. I've never been interested in tales of the occult, except in debunking the tricks of charlatans, but I am at a loss to describe you."

"I think you already know," I told him. "That's why you've been testing me."

I turned my back to the bridge and faced him.

"You noticed that I didn't eat or drink when we first met. I surprised you when I ate the chestnuts later that day, admit it."

Holmes nodded, brow furrowing. "Yes."

"And the stop at Saint Olave's church?"

"That too was a test."

"And yesterday, when you asked me what I wanted to do about the captain?"

Slowly Holmes nodded. "You were seen leaving the scene of the second mate's accident. I had to know how far your need for vengeance went."

Sighing, I leaned against the railing, careful not to break it.

"I didn't kill that man, but it was a near thing. I live with constant temptation. So far I have been able to resist." I stared at my shoes. This was the first time I'd confided my struggle to a living breathing person.

"Then I ask again, what are you?"

"A vampire."

I looked up, startled by Holmes' soft laughter and a look of fierce triumph on his face.

"Then it is as I surmised. My foray into the world of fiction has not gone unrewarded."

Thinking of the vampire fiction I'd read in recent years I shuddered. "Rymer and Polidori got it wrong," I told him. "I may be pale, but I do not have fangs!"

"I know," Holmes informed me dryly. "I looked."

And just like that the tension between us broke and I laughed.

"There is still the matter of your diet," Holmes reminded me quietly, but in a friendly tone.

"Animal blood, I drink from animals. Blood is the only thing my body will digest."

"Then I apologize for the chestnuts."

I laughed again. It was a strangely freeing experience, being able to talk about what I was to a man who was not fleeing in terror. I believe Sherlock Holmes was the only human on the face of the earth who could process the information with such calm equanimity.

"You're forgiven," I told him lightly. "I take it you didn't tell Watson of your suspicions?"

"I don't tell Watson everything, you know. I don't think he'd take it well, and I don't believe the case of the missing widow will ever make it into print. He would not publish any case without my say so, and that I shall never give."

Holmes' look of determination decided me. Here was a man that I could trust. I felt compelled to warn him as obliquely as possible, of the Volturi.

"I'm very glad of that. I'm a doctor now. I save lives instead of taking them, but not all of my kind are that way, and if they thought the secret of their existence was in danger they would not scruple to kill anyone they felt was a threat."

"There are more of you in England?"

I shook my head. "That I don't know. I haven't encountered any, but apart from visiting my hunting lodge in the country and the odd errand to my banker or solicitor, I remain mostly in Southwark. My work and my home are there."

"In Italy then."

Startled, I stared at Holmes. "How did you…?"

"You sound like Watson," he told me. "I have a brother in the government who traced you back to Italy, but could find no records of you prior to your enrollment in medical school. Italian medical schools are decent but lack the reputation of say, the Sorbonne or Edinburgh's medical school. Why study there unless it was a safe place to be?"

"Please," I begged. "Don't let your brother dig any further into the matter. If the others realize what he's up to…"

"Mycroft has moved on to other things. Besides, he wouldn't believe in vampires if one kissed him on the neck."

"I see you've been reading Sheridan Le Fanu as well," I sighed, thinking of the melodramatic and strikingly disturbing tale of Camilla.

"You ought to be grateful," Holmes pointed out. "The more melodramatic, the less likely people are to take vampiric stories seriously. As for me, my stand shall always be that vampires are an absurd myth. I deal in facts and nothing else."

He stared at me intently, until he saw that I believed him, then held out his hand for me to shake.

The last I saw of Sherlock Holmes, he was walking away from me across London Bridge, a tall figure in a tweed coat and hat, who rapidly disappeared among the pedestrians making their way to their morning destinations.

Seven years later I had cause to remember Holmes' words when Bram Stoker's book, Dracula, was published. It caused a resurgence of interest in vampires that ultimately caused me to leave New York where I'd settled after dropping Emily off in Illinois with her family. The Thatchers were a pleasant couple with two nearly grown boys who immediately took a liking to Emily. She grew up happy and protected. I pensioned off Mrs. Carmichael so that she'd spend the rest of her days in comfort, and sold the flat and hunting lodge.

When the nurses at the New York hospital where I worked became a little too curious about me after reading Stoker's book, I moved back to Illinois, to the heart of Chicago. It was there that I met Edward. Perhaps caring for Emily the short time I had her made me yearn for a family of my own.

I swore I'd never inflict this sort of existence on anyone else, but a promise to a dying mother, and Edward's own face, pale and wracked with fever, yet fighting to live, convinced me to try.

The experiment was a resounding success. Edward was the sort of son any man would be proud of. One day in 1924 he strolled into my study and threw a magazine down on my desk on top of the medical journal I was reading. I picked up the copy of Hearst's International Magazine and raised my eyebrows.

"Will you look at this?" Edward demanded. "Even that Watson guy has written a vampire story."

I froze. So far as I knew, Holmes was still alive in England, living on a remote farm and raising and studying bees of all things. Had Watson published the case notes of Mrs. Peterson without Holmes's permission? Or had Holmes with the recklessness of age, changed his mind about forbidding Watson to publish it?

Opening the magazine, I scanned the text of "The Sussex Vampire" quickly while half listening to Edward's tirade about vampire literature in general, and Bram Stoker's version in particular.

"Castles in Transylvania?" he huffed indignantly.

Sighing in relief, I set the magazine aside.

"A wise man once told me I should be grateful for the melodramatic nature of vampire novels," I told Edward.

"Grateful?" he asked incredulously. "Why would I be grateful for that?"

"Because it makes it all the more difficult for thinking, reasoning people to believe that we exist."

"Oh." Edward's face took on a look of concentration as he assimilated the idea.

"Besides, have you actually read this story?"

"No," he stammered. "I brought it straight to you after buying it at the newsstand."

I smiled and turned to the page I wanted.

"The Sussex Vampire isn't about a vampire, it's the story of a case of attempted murder by poison. Look here," I found the passage I was looking for and read it aloud.

"Rubbish, Watson, Rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It's pure lunacy."

Edward blinked. "You mean Sherlock Holmes doesn't believe in vampires?"

I felt a nostalgic smile cross my face. "I wouldn't say that exactly."

My son sat down in the armchair in front of my desk. "What aren't you telling me?" he asked.

"I met the man," I told him. "It was before you were born, in the winter of 1890. I suppose you'd call it the 'Case of the Missing Widow'…"

As I sat in my study and told Edward about my encounter with Sherlock Holmes, I remembered, dimly, my grandfather sitting much as I was, telling stories of his youth, stories his father had told him. And so it came full cycle, stories, facts, bits and pieces of our lives translated from father to son. I may have lost much in becoming a vampire, but the important things remained. I watched the rapt expression on Edward's face as I told my tale and I knew that my story about Sherlock Holmes would live on as part of my family's lore forever.

The End.

A/N: That's it. I'm not entirely satisfied with the last paragraph, but it's the best I could do. I hope I've remained true to both Arthur Conan Doyle and Stephanie Meyer's vision of their fictional worlds. If I have or haven't, feel free to let me know in your review.


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